


The Lovers' Game

by XavierWalker



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, Immortality, Los Santos, M/M, Violence, eventual ot7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XavierWalker/pseuds/XavierWalker
Summary: free·dom /ˈfrēdəm/ nounThe power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.





	1. Prologue: Michael and Ray

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Please be gentle with constructive criticism, since this is my first time posting my writing on the internet. Thank you! :)

Michael feels somewhat childish.

He walks down the sun-baked streets of Los Santos with nothing but a bag on his shoulder containing his few possessions. Pedestrians shove by him, and he resists the urge to whip around and snarl at them, like he would have done in New Jersey.

At the memory of his previous home, he feels slightly ashamed. Technically, he's running away, but he's a grown-ass man; he goes where he pleases. Or, well, he does now.

Los Santos is nothing like New Jersey in a multitude of ways, but currently the most obtrusive one is the heat. It's over a hundred degrees, and Michael is sweating hard in his leather jacket.

Frustrated, he swipes a hand across his forehead and ducks into a nearby alleyway for shade. Leaning up against the graffiti-covered brick wall, he pulls out his phone and swipes through his contacts. He pauses, staring at one in particular.

Denise. 

In a fit of fury, he deletes the contact. His hand trembles. It's not enough. He throws the phone down on the ground and stomps on it with his heel, grinding his teeth. When he lifts his shoe, the phone is cracked beyond recognition.

I needed a new one anyway, he thinks bitterly.

He turns to leave the alleyway, but there's someone standing in the entrance, staring at him.

A young man, possibly ethnic, with a large purple hoodie and an expression that just screams boredom. He's scrawny and a little unbalanced, but there's a large, hot-pink, personalized sniper rifle strapped to his back that indicates a major threat.

“Cutting ties?” he asks, hands tucked away in the pocket of his hoodie. Michael takes a step back and bares his teeth, unnerved.

“None of your fucking business.”

“True, true.”

“Then why did you fucking ask me?”

There's a moment of silence.

“My name's Ray,” offers the young man, and Michael doesn't know what to do with this information. 

This is Los Santos – America's own city of unstoppable crime. Michael was half expecting to be slaughtered the moment he came here, and now some weird-looking kid is looking up at him through hooded eyes, offering his name. 

Are people normally like this outside of New Jersey? Michael has no point of comparison. All at once he realizes that he could seriously use an ally. He sticks a hand out awkwardly, unused to playing nice.

“Uh, the name's Michael.”

Ray looks amused by his sudden change in tone, reaching out to grasp his hand.

“Los Santos can be tough on newbies. Where are you from?”

“New Jersey.”

“Nice. Now don't tell anyone that, ever again. As far as they know, you're born and raised in Los Santos.” Ray pulls his hand back and turns to lean against the corner of the building, giving Michael some serious side eye. “They'll think you're weak, otherwise. What are you good at?”

“Why the hell do you want to know?” Michael tilts his head, frowning.

“I could tell from across the street that you're a new arrival. Most people know better than to go bumping into Los Santos' most vicious criminals without even an apology. Unless you've got the skills to back it up.”

“I've got skills,” Michael interjects, squaring his shoulders to look more intimidating. A piece of auburn hair falls in front of his eyes and he blows it out of the way angrily.

“My god, you're a walking stereotype,” Ray says, chuckling softly. His whole face changes when he smiles, and suddenly Michael feels a lot less strong. “Does that work in New Jersey?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I have a bit of a reputation there. I do explosions.”

“Really?” Ray asks, a glint in his eye. “Exclusively? Or...”

“I can do other stuff,” Michael grumbles. “I'm just really good at blowing shit up.”

Ray turns to fully face him again, a shadow cast over his face from his purple hood, and he gives Michael a slow, excited grin that makes Michael's heart beat faster.

“I think we'd make a great team. What do you say?”

 

-

 

Ray has not lived in Los Santos his entire life. He used to operate primarily in the concrete jungle of Manhattan, perfecting his aim and utilizing his skills to keep his mother and himself afloat financially.

However, after she died, Ray felt no attachment to New York.

He knows he's good at what he does. He'd heard a lot about Los Santos from other criminals he worked with, and he traveled here to see if he's truly the best. He wants slot number one on the scoreboard, so to speak.

That said, he has no idea what he's doing right now, letting this adrenaline-fueled Jersey boy into his apartment. Watching him stomp his phone into oblivion in the dirtiest alleyway of Los Santos was certainly interesting, but Ray is kind of winging it at this point.

Michael reminds him of a lost, feral puppy trying to make its way through a den of wolves. Ray has certainly never been a charitable person, but something about Michael just pulls him in. 

After all, being level-headed is a staple of the Los Santos high-end criminals; you don't get very far with a short fuse. But there also aren't really any explosive experts in Los Santos. Most folks seem to agree that a big gun will get the job done just a well, so Michael has a sort of niche position to fill here. 

This in and of itself makes Ray want him on his side. 

There's also something else. No one has ever looked at Ray the way Michael looks at him; it's as if he believes Ray holds the key to life, or freedom, or some other grand concept that Ray can't be bothered to think of.

He likes it.

He's used to lurking in the shadows, or watching others through the scope of his sniper rifle from the roof of some office building. Ray may be an introvert at heart, but it's been far, far too long since he was close to someone.

And Michael – well, Michael is himself, a unique brand of rage and kindness that leaves Ray's head spinning until he has to go lie down. He's spending a lot of time under to covers these days, playing on his DS and trying to calm his racing heart.

There's something to this, and Ray can't quite bring himself to put an end to it.


	2. Prologue: Gavin and Jeremy

Jeremy is an inventor. It's a strange label to have, especially in this day and age, but it's the only aspect of himself that he's particularly proud of.

He can create weapons – incredible enhancements for firearms that make the weapon an extension of the person that wields it. He can make armor – unnoticeable fabrics that can easily distribute the force of a bullet, or literal plate mail that allows for aerodynamics while on a motorcycle (that was a strange request). He can design a technological solution to almost any problem a heist could have.

The problem is, no crew seems to want him.

He's an average shot with a handgun, but everyone he teams up with seems to think he's just a dreamer that talks a big game. They never stay with him long enough to see what he can really do. There are many different ways a heist can go wrong, and the Los Santos frenzy, as Jeremy likes to call it, can turn the tide for even the most well thought-out heist. 

Jeremy is originally from Massachusetts, which has, frankly, much less interesting people than the criminals of Los Santos. This gives him a rather interesting outside perspective on the hurried madness of a Los Santos resident. 

And that's the crux of the matter; inventions take time, and time is something that the citizens of Los Santos always seem to be running out of. Jeremy's been a part of heists that were planned and executed in the span of a day. Although it was quite impressive in retrospect, he doesn't think he's ever been so stressed in his entire life. 

Sometimes he forgets why he came here, and those times are the hardest. 

Jeremy looks up at the sky from his apartment roof, swaying in the hammock he set up a few months ago. This city truly never sleeps. A few blocks away, sirens scream as police cars race down the street in pursuit of some group of thieves, and in the alleyway to Jeremy's left, he can literally hear one of his neighbors selling someone heroin. What a time to be alive.

But there's a warm breeze, and the night is shifting. In the times when he remembers, the sirens sound like music to his ears, and the towering city buildings are his domain.

He closes his eyes and lets his imagination run wild, pondering creation after creation.

Perhaps he should get a piece of paper.

 

-

Gavin Free is in so, so much trouble. He should be used to it by now, but his hands tremble as he frantically types code into his computer, and his crew members are screaming at him in his earpiece. He's meant to be hacking the bank alarm system to shut it off, but every time his allies shout at him, the earpiece spikes and his train of thought is lost.

It's too late at this point, he knows it is, but that doesn't stop him from trying. A tear rolls down his face, and he ignores it in favor of typing, typing, typing. He keeps going even as he hears them dying through the earpiece; shooting and screaming as they fall, one by one. 

Unless they're being paid off, the police of Los Santos rarely take prisoners.

But then again – this is all a memory, in a dream. Or a nightmare, rather. In reality, Gavin is always much more controlled. The mistakes he made on his first heist have never again been repeated, and as he wrenches himself into consciousness, panting and sweating in the night air, he takes a moment to remind himself of that small fact. 

Sniffing, he gets out of bed and shuffles over to the window, pulling back the curtains to peer outside.

That weirdo with the cowboy hat is on the roof again.

Gavin has been watching this man for a few days, ever since he first noticed him on the neighboring building while he was getting a midnight snack. There's something delightful about the oddballs of Los Santos; they love to gaze at the stars with their wistful eyes and dream big.

America itself is marketed an ideal, but Gavin quickly realized when he arrived that Americans are never satisfied; not that the reality of America is anywhere near the grandiose image it presents.

Still. Gavin has a feeling that a place like Los Santos would never have gotten to this point in some other country. A city populated by aspiring criminals, fighting to be the biggest and the best. Gavin can't think of any other place he'd rather be.

Giving an unseen smile to the cowboy, Gavin lets the curtain fall back into place and walks into his office, powering up his computer. When he's bored or can't sleep, he often attempts to find something challenging to hack into.

Squinting at the bright, backlit screen, Gavin gives a cursory glance to the bank system he was infiltrating the day before. Boring. He switches to the Los Santos news website, a mostly crime-filled reporting platform called The Rook.

Plastered on the front page, as usual, is a notorious criminal that Gavin has been making every effort to identify.

The Vagabond.

It's the most difficult challenge Gavin ha ever given himself; the man wears a mask everywhere he goes, and Gavin has never wanted anything more in his entire life than to see his face. After all, you can't hack a man when you don't know his identity.

He's tried following the Vagabond on street cameras while he's doing a heist, or a hit, but there hasn't been a single indicator of his identity. The only thing that Gavin is relatively certain about is that he's a man.

And, okay, the bloke is untraceable. So what? Why should he care if this man chooses to remain a mystery? The thought of it only consumes Gavin's every waking moment, so it's not a big deal, right?

The problem is that Gavin hates not knowing things; it's a constant itch at the back of his mind. As a child, he would spend all of his time in the library, absorbing as much information as he could. When he gained access to the internet, it was like a whole new world was opened up to him.

God damn it. He needs to focus.


	3. Prologue: Jack and Ryan

Jack Patillo is a very intelligent woman.

That doesn't seem to stop the jackasses of Los Santos from underestimating her, but she has no problem proving them wrong. Where they see an overweight, transgender woman, she sees unmarked and unstoppable potential.

The only issue is that she needs an opportunity to use it. She's thought about starting a crew of her own, but that isn't exactly what she wants; she doesn't want to be the one giving orders, or playing nice with the warehouse traders that deal in illegal cargo and always seem to want more than cash.

She wants to have a front row seat to a plan that she has orchestrated, while some cruel face barks out orders to the lackeys. No, they won't respect her, but at least she'll know that their success is due to her genius, rather than a hastily thrown together plan based on a TV show.

“Patillo! Get your ass in gear, we're heading out!”

“I'll be there in a minute!”

Right. Well, time to go sit in a tech van while these fools get wasted. Maybe someone will live long enough to bring some cash back.

 

-

 

Ryan Haywood is certain that he is not a psychopath. Or, well, he's pretty sure, at least.

However, as usual, his reputation precedes him. He doesn't often work with a crew, but he's new to the area and tight on cash, so it has to be done. But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with the fact that every time he enters a room, his crew members pull out their weapons (pretending to clean them) and give him looks of undisguised wariness.

Okay, so he may have killed a few (hundred) people, but that doesn't mean he can't control himself! He only does it for the money; he can't help that he's really good at it!

The mask probably doesn't help.

Honestly, Ryan doesn't know why he's the odd one out in this. It makes sense to try to mask your identity as much as possible when you're a criminal, right? There's a reason no one knows his name. Besides, he looks pretty badass with it on, and the intimidation factor can be helpful in some situations.

Actually, there seems to be one woman in this amateur crew that isn't afraid of him. She obviously has far more experience than these buffoons, but they aren't taking her advice into consideration. 

The plan they're operating on is basic at best, and doesn't have a lot of contingency strategies. The woman, Jack, keeps trying to say this, but the crew leader keeps insisting that their plan will work just fine.

In a moment of frustration, she makes eye contact with Ryan from across the room and tilts her head as if to say, 

_Can you see what I'm dealing with here?_

Ryan nods in response, then rubs his fingers together to indicate cash. Then he points at Jack, and then himself.

_Split the cash, you and me?_

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, but she discreetly gives him the A-OK symbol with the hand at her hip.

Later, after the meeting ends, Ryan waits in the hallway outside of the room. As she walks out, he grabs her arm and leads her into a nearby storage closet. She looks slightly alarmed, so he puts a finger to his skull-mouth to indicate silence.

He pulls out the pen and notepad that he always carries with him, and begins to write.

She watches curiously as he does this, raising an eyebrow as if to question,

_What are you doing?_

Ryan raises his hand and gently wraps it around his own throat, shaking his head. Jack nods sympathetically.

Ryan hands her the notepad, and she gives it a cursory glance. Then she holds her hand out and makes a grabbing motion. Ryan gives her the pen.

She starts crossing out lines of his writing, and making notes in the margins. Together, they work out a separate plan to rob the bank before the other crew members get to it, and split the cash once it's all over.

Once the details are all worked out, she looks up at him through some strands of her red hair and gives him a smile.

This should be fun.


End file.
